Yahoo Autos The Ferrari 550 Maranello Does Something No Modern Supercar Can
A borrowed supercar is a high-dollar hotel suite. It is impressive, unnecessary, gluttonous, and perfect Instagram fodder. It is also decidedly not yours—a fragile, expensive liability. Relaxation is hard to achieve within this context. So I’ve always looked forward to driving supercars, and, equally, looked forward to handing the keys back. Then I drove a Ferrari 550 Maranello.
This is not a car I ever cared about. Growing up I pined for M5s and 911s and Corvettes, but this mild-looking V-12 GT never stirred emotion. The Prancing Stallion roamed in a world apart from suburban Ohio; a world I thought I'd never visit, replete with six-figure purchase prices and five-figure maintenance bills.
I thought they'd never let me into the club for so long, I hadn’t even tried the door.
Then the 550 fell into my lap. DriverSource, a collector car storage and sales firm based out of Houston, offered to let a Road & Track editor drive a couple of cars from their Gated Collection. Of the lot, my boss chose this euro-market 550 Maranello—now live on Bring a Trailer—and a pink Diablo VT. A week later, I turned the ignition key of that very same 1997 Blu Swaters Metallizzato 550 Maranello.
It didn’t start. Of course I hadn’t pressed the immobilizer button, a gentle reminder this car was of another era.
That’s not as obvious as it sounds. Because the 550 Maranello straddles a generational border. Its styling looks modern and clean, sculpted—like all late Ferraris—by the wind tunnel's invisible hand. But it’s also simpler and less aggressive than the post-Millenium prancing horses. Its suspension feels friendly in a way modern supercars have either forgotten or chosen to ignore, but the 550 does have electronically adjustable dampers, our suspension tech of the moment. And while the 550 is the last volume-production flagship Ferrari to come exclusively with a manual transmission, it is also the first of that set to come standard with traction control.
Even its layout has one foot in the past and another in the present. Ferrari abandoned the front-mounted V-12 in the Seventies, with the 550 arriving as a glorious throwback. But that callback became a hallmark: Ferrari has built V-12 GT cars ever since.
It is no wonder the formula stuck. The 550 Maranello is not another ubiquitous variant of the mid-engine volume supercars from McLaren, Lamborghini, and Ferrari itself. It is of a different ethos. That much became clear when, on my second attempt, the 5.5-liter V-12 fired.
Perhaps it was because I had just heard a Diablo with an aftermarket exhaust spring to life, or perhaps it was because I spent my childhood hearing Ferrari V-8s and V-12s roaring in Need for Speed games, but I expected hellfire. Instead the exhaust system produced a cough, then a murmur.
There was no menacing shake, no ruthless lope ingrained in the profile of its camshafts. The engine felt smooth, quiet, subdued. I rolled onto a two-lane backroad, expecting to hear the engine wake. But up to freeway speeds, the V-12 had little to say. It was not showy, or aggressive, or absurd, but simply smooth, creamy, and delightful.
Reaching an open area, I slotted the substantial metal shifter into its second gate, and blipped the throttle to get the V-12 into its Q-zone. It sounds beautiful in town, but a secondary sensation. The 550 is quiet even near its redline. The focal point is the engine's power, which comes on in a smooth wave that peaks at 7000 rpm. Peak torque—419 lb-ft—doesn't arrive until 5000 rpm, either, encouraging you to wring revs out of the V-12. 478 hp may not impress these days, but the free, lively nature of its delivery puts nearly every modern engine to shame.
As does the steering. Speed-sensitive assist sounds like the sort of modern chicanery that could ruin a car, but here it does the opposite. The steering assist is light around town, but as the 550 speeds up, the system reduces how much help the hydraulic power steering provides. The faster I went, the more the Ferrari woke up in my hands. At speed, the 550's steering rack feels both talkative and stable, making micro-corrections easier than in any other car I’ve driven. Flow state in a 550 is never far away; The damned thing’s so communicative that you can find nirvana in traffic.
It’s why I didn’t mind getting stuck behind a dually on the Texas state highway. Even at 55 mph, far from any of its limits, the 550 is a joy. Every ka-thunk of the heavy shifter satisfies, with delightful metallic noises accompanying a perfectly defined shifter. The gearbox is so precise that the gate is more ornament than guideline. The lever finds its place even when you don’t bang it against the guardrails. Pedal placement is equally perfect, making heel-and-toe easy and rewarding.
All of that prepares me for the perfect moment, when the solid line goes dotted. I nail the downshift, and the Ferrari charges forth. The front end wakes up, and the nose on this V-12 grand tourer becomes as pointy as a 911 GT3’s.
The front dives into corners, the rear rotates gracefully as you roll onto the power, and the car glides forward as if propelled by the tides. Every input feels perfect. Every sensation is not exhilarating but somehow cathartic. This car's movements are fluid, not jagged.
That is where the 550 separates itself from the number of utterly sensational supercars. The difference is not technical but emotional. After pushing a GT3 or a Huracan or a 720S, my mind reaches for words like “brutal,” “heart-racing,” or “awe-inspiring.” Pick a pull quote from the latest action book jacket and you’d be right about there.
When I think about the 550, though, my mind settles on another word: Delightful. Whether it's cruising down a highway as a quiet, supple GT car with beautifully smooth suspension, or sliding around a tight bend like a proper Italian supercar, the Ferrari feels awake, alive, and joyful underneath you. It is not a stiff GT3 or a shouty McLaren. It does not punish, or bruise, or bite. The frequency of its demeanor resonates with the driver, responding precisely to inputs but somehow elevating them through its own excellence.
I would take it to a race track. I would take it to a meeting in downtown LA during rush hour. I would take it for a last-minute drive-thru detour. I would take it across the country, and then look for an excuse to take it back. I would take it everywhere, knowing the controls are friendly, that the ride is not too punishing, that the A/C is good enough to make me cold on a 98-degree Houston day, that the styling isn’t flashy enough to cause a scene, and that the interior is a nice place to spend an entire day.
I would do it all in this car. I’d be delighted to.
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